


Heksen af Kattegat

by AliceMalefoy



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, F/M, Halloween, Halloween Challenge, Witchcraft, Witches, albinos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 21:42:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16462859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceMalefoy/pseuds/AliceMalefoy
Summary: In the deepest part of the forest there dwells a creature of darkness. Everyone knows of her yet no one saw her and lived to tell about it. Like a shadow, she is and she is not. She is a lurking presence, the silence of the night, the breath in your neck. No one dares to venture out there after dusk,  for there is an evil in these woods, and she is it.





	Heksen af Kattegat

**Author's Note:**

> (= The Witch of Kattegat in Danish)
> 
> This is not part of anyone’s Halloween challenge but my very own. I challenged myself to write a goddamn Halloween fanfic for once and not just ignore the general spooky mood in favor of doing my own thing like an absolute asocial. I really wanted it to be a one shot and not turn this into yet another series I have to update more or less regularly. It’s long guys. It’s a monstrosity, I’m sorry.

 

He grew up with this story. They all did. It was a bogeyman parents told their children about to make them behave, nothing more. It was an ancient tale someone made up and that got passed onto the next generation and so on until its origin was lost to all. A story of magic and things that go bump in the night, a warning to the young ones who were tempted to sneak out at night, or venture too far into the woods.

But Ivar has always been a smart child, sharper than any of his brothers. He was by far the less likely to believe such a tale - and judging by his mother's knowing smile she was aware of it. He listened carefully and glanced at his older brothers staring at their mother with wide eyes glimmering with wonder and barely hidden fear.

One day Ivar went to see his mother and told her he knew the truth.

“What truth are you speaking of, my sweet child?” Aslaug had asked, gently pinching his chin.

“Your story is a lie!” He accused, making her stare in surprise. “It can't be real! No one lives that old!”

A fair point, she had had to admit. Her expression softened a bit upon hearing his argument, as though she had been expecting something else.

“Some living creatures live a very long time,” Aslaug started, “to find them, all you have to do is gaze into their eyes, and you will see the weight of all their years of existence,” she countered, tapping the tip of his nose.

The action caused a childish kind of frustration to appear on his face – Ivar hated not being taken seriously because of his age. How he wished he too was as old and wise as time sometimes. How he secretly wished the tale was true, and that such state of agelessness was achievable – the things he would do!

“Now where are you brothers? It is time for dinner,” his mother told him, putting an end to their conversation before Ivar could argue further and ask more questions.

Ivar crawled away to get his brothers, a scowl on his face as he called their names. His mind was elsewhere during the whole evening. He sat through dinner but didn't say a word, barely ate as he glared ahead of him, thinking hard.

If his mother was telling the truth then he had to find out more about it. He had to listen more carefully tonight when she would once again recount a dark tale to capture their attention and put them to sleep.

For if the tales were real, it opened new horizons. Horizons that young Ivar could not see the width of yet. In hindsight these stories were hardly appropriate for children, even if his brothers begged for the scary stories, claiming they weren't afraid. But Ivar had stopped counting the number of times he caught them shooting a wary glance towards the forest and its shaded areas.

Ivar and the other children of Kattegat had grown up hearing tales of a monstrous thing lurking in the dark, waiting for a child to wander off to eat them. Sordid tales of a shape-shifting creature with no name, no face, an ageless being to stay clean of, lest they find themselves in its clutches.

Stories about the one thing even mighty warriors tried to avoid, something – someone – that fought not with weapons but with something entirely different. Stories about the witch of Kattegat.

  
  


*

  
  


Despite his young age, Ivar could say he faced a great number of hardships in his life. And some of those very nearly made him do the unthinkable. He remembered the first time he spoke of finding the witch, how the room fell silent, as though time came to a stop, how his brothers stared in shock and bewilderment, their spoons halfway to their mouths. Then all hell broke loose, and it was like they were children again – terrified of the scary, children eating, men mauling, life sucking witch that lived in the woods. A table full of grown men afraid of a creature that might not even exist.

Ivar had abandoned the thought – it was nothing more than that after all, a spontaneous thought he didn't plan on acting on, not really.

His eyes burned with an untamed flame but he could do nothing about it. He was the youngest son, the cripple, the last in line, the unworthy. His ambitions would forever remain unachievable because of his physical condition – or so he thought up until Ragnar came back from the dead, old, diminished, and the shadow of the legendary king he became years before.

His life sped up from this moment on, and all thoughts of witches and magic were pushed out of his minds. At least until he nearly drowned during the journey to Wessex, when his father took him to sail west with him. Though even then he remembered with great clarity the moment he went underwater and wished, hoped, prayed for a magical intervention. He didn't like to think too hard about his miraculous survival. He tried to forget the rocky beginning of his adventure. But then, when things turned sour and he was imprisoned while his father was being executed, his mind turned once again towards this witch and the powers she might have.

Oh he remembered clear as day how strongly he wished for a magical interference. If the gods didn't meddle with their mortal lives and save his father, then maybe the witch would have. Maybe if he had found her as he had considered so many times for years, he would have tamed her by now made her into his plaything, his pet.

But he hadn't. He hadn't, and his father died, and he sailed back home to gather forces and avenge that cruel death, unworthy of the king he was. He came back to Kattegat with a furnace alight behind his dark irises, a fire no disability would ever extinguish or diminish. Confident in his skills despite the lack of usage of his legs, Ivar allowed his ambitions to come alive again. Ragnar had blown on the red embers of his rage and drive.

He didn't need magic to get what he wanted. And what he wanted was greatness. A name for himself, a legend, a legacy.

He wouldn't stop before he got what he wanted, until the witch trembled at the mere mention of _his_ name. He would bring the creature to its knees.

  
  


*

  
  


His mother was dead. Ivar's mind was hazy with hurt, anger, and grief. His hands ached to reach for his mother's hands, yet there was nothing to grasp. She was gone. He screamed at the void, his voice echoing around him. No one heard him, that much he was sure of, for he had wandered far from the town.

No one wanted to deal with him anyway, and he didn't want to deal with them either. Sitting on a rock in the middle of the thickest fog he had ever seen, Ivar wallowed in self-pity and cried for his departed dearly beloved mother, killed by the usurper Lagertha.

It was right then and there, on this rock, after hours of sitting unmoving in the cold humidity that Ivar came to a decision. Nothing else worked, nothing his dead father, his dead mother, or his thick brothers ever suggested, or approved of has ever shown any results. He needed to take action.

Floki always laughed when Ivar brought up the tale of the witch, as if he had been warned by every mother in Kattegat not to tell the children it was but a bogeyman. As if he was hiding something behind his maniac laugh. Ivar knew better than to ask him directly, for no one was as good as Floki to answer questions without giving a proper response.

Knowing that there was something someone withheld from him was motivation enough to Ivar. He wanted to know – no, more than that, he _needed_ to know. He needed to see for himself. Perhaps it really was but a tale to scare the young ones, but if there was even a slight chance it had any truth to it, then he had to try.

Ivar set his mind. He would find the witch, make her use her powers on him, give him proper legs, and with them he knew he would find a way to rise above his current condition and kill his mother's murderer.

  
  


*

  
  


The decision ended up being an easy one – because of Lagertha's overtaking of Kattegat he was welcome no more, and while his brothers still fought her upfront, he was planning his revenge. She publicly refused his challenge when he asked to battle it out with her. She had the nerve to turn her back to her enemy, showing no more worry than if he were still a child and not a young man trained in the art of war.

Ivar seethed with rage and let it be known to all of Kattegat that he would avenge Aslaug and kill the usurper. The wretched woman ruined his life. She robbed his mother of a painless and dignified death and instead shot her in the back, like a coward would. She was defenceless and surrendered without resistance, there was no honour in killing an enemy who didn't fight back.

The thought still made his brain boil with anger, though it happened a few months ago. Ivar was on a self-exile, wondering if he would ever find his way back; if anyone had noticed his absence at all; if he was on a wild goose chase. So many questions swirled about in his head and the quiet of the woods did nothing to prevent him from over-thinking.

His arms hurt and were covered in bruises because of his crutches. He walked the woods painfully slowly, the bumpy tracks, leaf covered, muddy ground did nothing to help him navigate in the maze that was the forest. Each and every tree looked exactly like its neighbours once he reached a point he had never been before. His entire body was but ache, hunger, and cold.

Maybe he was going to die in these woods, ruminating his thoughts of vengeance until his last breath – that would surely take place under some oak during a night colder than usual. Maybe the witch would come across his lifeless body and smile – yet another foolish man who thought he would find her.

No.

Such thoughts were not allowed, he couldn't have it. His brothers would never be able to accomplish their vengeance without him, he knew it. They had legs but if the brain guiding them wasn't set on the right path it was pointless, they might as well be headless chickens. If the gods had granted Ivar legs, he would be king of the world by now.

He tripped on a root, his body hitting the hard ground in a thud muffled by the leaves and moss. He cursed out loud, having long stopped caring if there was a living soul to hear him cuss. Surely that wouldn't put off the witch if there ever was one in the first place.

But instead of getting discouraged, each passing day of nothing but trees, mist, and mud felt like a blow of wind on the red embers of his determination. The more she hid from him, the more he wanted to find her. For her existence suddenly seemed real, and not a mere story anymore. Alone in these gloomy woods, Ivar felt it in his bones that something dangerous lived here.

Its presence made his hair stand on end, his sweat run cold, his blood curl. It was madness to whip his head round every time he thought he saw movement, only to see it was a raven or an howl sitting on a branch and staring at him with big, curious eyes. He rubbed the base of his neck and stood up again, with more difficulty but more determination each time he fell. His knuckles were dry and bloody, each joint sore, every patch of skin burning from the biting cold.

He didn't care. He walked on, straining his muscles, pushing through the pain. For she was there, Ivar knew it, felt it. He has roamed these woods day and night, ignoring the sharp pain shooting up his bad leg – his worse leg – and pushing way beyond the limits of his body. Surely that couldn't be for nothing, the gods wouldn't play such a tasteless trick on him. Whatever awaited him, it had to be grand, she had to be a terrifyingly powerful creature, and he would use it.

For days now he followed a moving shadow. His guts told him she wasn't far, but his eyes kept betraying him. Shadows don't move on their own, and nothing in the surrounding stillness moved, so naturally it couldn't be that the shadow moved. No matter the wind, the trees were ancient and thick, but he could have sworn something moved behind the line of trees, something fast, something silent in the night.

After the first week he recognized a particular crooked tree and realized he had walked past it a couple times already. The shadow was leading him round and round in the hopes to tire him out or make him go mad. Loki himself could be playing with his sanity and Ivar would be none the wiser. However, the young Viking highly doubted the trickster god was the one leaning his astray.

To Ivar it was a sign he was close to his goal, for this shadow must have belonged to someone. And whose could it be but hers? Who lived this far out in the woods knowing evil lurked in its darkest corners?

It has now been three weeks since he realized he unintentionally became the sorceress' plaything. The thought was maddening, but at the same time he was sure no one had been this close to finding out who she was.

As always when dusk came and it became too difficult for Ivar to keep on moving in the dark with his crutches, he found a place to settle for the night, wrapping himself in furs and willing away the cold. Moss was not his bed in Kattegat, and he constantly had to remind himself he no longer had a bed or a home in Kattegat. The wind blew hard tonight so he had to find a sheltered corner to sit down, leaning against a twisted tree that looked like it came straight out of his nightmares. The woods' silence was slowly replaced by the noise of nocturnal animals who came out of their hiding spot, and Ivar closed his eyes.

It was a relatively harsh and restless night, as most were these days. He couldn't tell whether it was due to the setting or the circumstances, but he knew that neither the cold hard ground nor the death of both his parents helped in the matter.

Things were no longer what they were, what they were supposed to be, or what they seemed to be. Everything was either too quiet or too loud, too slow or too fast. Ivar couldn't trust his senses anymore. His eyes saw things that were not, his ears perceived sounds that couldn't be. Like the soft whispers of the wind, murmuring against his neck. If he was inclined to believe such things possible, he'd say he even felt a warm breath against his nape.

But he was undoubtedly alone. He didn't need eyes nor ears to know that, he felt it. No human presence other than himself was in these woods. Then again, perhaps the witch wasn't quite human.

He stirred and shook from the cold in his sleep, until he was rested enough that his eyes opened from themselves, though it was still night. The frightful sight before him nearly caused his heart to stop. He stopped breathing, and he would swear the forest also held its breath in this moment.

She looked at him with intent, a sharp glimmer in his glowing eyes. Ivar didn't dare move a muscle, not even to breathe. She blink and narrowed her eyes, as though she was gazing upon a curious creature she had never seen before in her life. Still and struck mute, Ivar could do nothing but stare back with equal focus – not that he had the option to look anywhere else, her eyes quite literally shone in the dark, like two crystals catching the moonlight.

Her face remained hidden in the shadow of her cloak, a clothing so dark he couldn't see where it ended and where the night began. Ivar could make out a nose and a mouth, but before he could fully study her face, she moved.

A brisk, silent movement that seemed to finally free Ivar of her spell and allowed him to take in some much needed air. She stood a mere few meters away from him but the air was already much more breathable and he could think straight again and not just stare in fascination.

“You are trespassing,” came her disembodied voice, whispering and screaming at the same time, coming from here and there, from the sky above and the earth below, from in and from out. The words echoed in his mind as though Ivar was the one who thought them. He blinked and she was gone.

Ivar was on his feet faster than ever.

“No!” He yelled when his voice was returned to him. “Don't go!”

Ivar looked around, seeing nothing in the pitch black night but the glowing eyes of small animals and birds. He still felt her. She was there, watching him, like a predator watching their prey.

“You are not welcome here.” The voice became clearer and Ivar spun around, wincing at the pain and grunting.

He nearly toppled over both in hurt and shock. The sun had set hours ago and the moon wasn't full tonight. He could barely make out her figure standing a couple meters to his left. But even at this distance her eyes in particular stood out - sharp clear eyes, holding his attention like she'd put a spell on him. Ivar felt stuck, like he had just stepped into a trap. They were entrancing and for a moment he forgot he had to say something.

The creature stared at him, slowing titling her head to the right as if studying him. Her eyes were a light colour but were painted black. Charcoal it seemed was smudged over her face from ear to ear and the stark contrast of colours didn't help Ivar's sudden muteness. There wasn't much else he could see other than her pale complexion - a ghost really. As though she had spent years avoiding the daylight. No wonder he couldn't find her during daytime, perhaps she only wandered out at night, like all the other forest creatures who want to avoid men.

“I need your services,” he finally said, the words coming out croaky and more hesitant than he would have liked.

She did not move. Her glare was strong and piercing. Ivar shuddered, either from the cold or her hard stare. It was clear that she had no intention to answer that. Even worse: she looked amused!

“You have magic. Use it to fix my legs, help me achieve my ambitions and I will cover you in more gold than you can imagine,” he continued, growing impatient.

He had been looking for her for days now, the least she could do was to speak to him. Facing such intense silence unsettled him.

Of course his first instinct was to bargain. Who could resist the thought of gold and living a life of opulence and comfort? She could apparently. She sneered, though she remained quiet, her hard unforgiving gaze stuck on him. The thought that he was a defenceless mouse in a trap struck Ivar again but he shook it away.

“Land. I can give you land if gold is of no interest to you,” he added. “Power. Servants if you want,” he kept on going, not seeing that she couldn't be swayed by earthly possessions.

“The land belongs to no mortal soul, only the gods own this land and the sky above,” the creature barked back as if Ivar had just made a blasphemy.

Her voice was smoky and low, as though she hadn't used it in some time and was only now getting back the hang of it. He recoiled when she stepped forward menacingly and cursed himself for showing a sign of weakness to an unknown creatures who could very well turn out to be an enemy.

“I have more power than you could ever give me, and I will never use it to submit another living creature,” she told him with a bit of condescension, a clear sign that she wasn't a complete stranger to the way of men after all.

“Then ask and you shall receive whatever you want, witch.”

She backed away at the last word, her eyes finally looking down and freeing Ivar from their mesmerizing sight.

“No.” It was curt, final.

“ _No_?” Who was she to refuse his more than generous offer?

“I will not. You are king enough as it is, and vengeance is sterile act. I will play no part in this power game of yours,” she stated, giving him full sentences at long last.

Ivar was beginning to think her seclusion had driven her mad. He was no king. He was the errand son of a dead king, whose throne was currently occupied by his first wife and the killer of his dear mother. If there ever was a creature as miserable as Ivar he has not heard of it.

“The gods took your legs away, it is not my place to give them back,” she explained, her voice softer this time, as though she realized she has been bargaining with a grieving child and not a mighty Viking threatening her with an axe. “Everything has a reason to be or not to be.”

“So it means that you have the ability to. You could help me if you wanted,” Ivar pointed out, not exactly waiting for an answer. “You seem to know who I am. If so, you should know I'm not beyond using lower methods to obtain what I want.”

He couldn't be sure because of the dark but Ivar swore her figure didn't stay still. Like a cloak, shadows moved and billowed behind her, as though they were a living creature ready to strike whoever threatened their master. The shadows didn't engulf her, they surrounded her, enveloped her like a protective glove. His very being screamed at him to stay where he was and not attempt to close the space between them.

She started smiling. First timidly and than bigger and bigger until it became grotesque. Was it possible to stretch your mouth so wide open? Ivar wouldn't know but cold sweat trickled down his back while a shiver ran down his spine.

“And if you know who _I_ am then you should know the wise thing to do is to turn around and never look back,” she replied, the threat barely veiled behind her amused tone.

Her presence grew, Ivar felt smaller, oppressed by the heavy shadows.

“Wise people never achieve anything. I deemed the reward worth the risk when I set my mind to finding you,” he told her boldly.

“You walk alongside death and treat it like a comrade but one day it will look you in the eye and you will know, it never was your friend.”

Her ominous statement took him aback, but her words burned in his memory, where they would stay for a long time, he was certain of it. He blinked one moment too long and she was gone. Laughter erupted in the air. It came from nowhere in particular yet everywhere at the same time. It felt like being surrounded by a pack of hungry wolves on the hunt, liking their chops in anticipation of the meal to come.

“Go. You are unwelcome,” she said again, this time from his right.

She stood farther away, all trace of humour gone from her features. Somehow she seemed even more hidden by the dark than before.

“I will not help you. The people of Kattegat do not deserve my help, or my mercy. I do not owe anything to anyone. Leave me be and do not come again or you will regret it.”

Her last words were spoken softly, like a whisper, like a hushed confession she spoke into his ear. But there was no mistaking the dignity of her tone, and no doubting she would carry out her threat. Before Ivar could protest, she was gone again, vanishing between the trees. They too looked like they could move and dance with the shadows. She was no longer here this time, he didn't feel her presence any longer and the noises of the sleeping forest started again, breaking the eerie quietness.   
Feeling he had already tested his luck enough for one day, Ivar made to return to his sleeping spot to finish his night and get some rest. He would look for her again tomorrow. He would come walk these parts as many times as he had to in order to get what he wanted.

  
  


*

  
  


Aslaug had told Ivar countless times that perseverance was key but he hadn't really given it much credit until now. Being in the shoes of a predator for the first time in his life made him realize just how much discipline and will it took to wait. Waiting for his target to show herself, waiting for her to acknowledge him, speak to him.

Patience was a quality he did no possess, and he cursed the gods once again for making him so. Nevertheless, he persevered and roamed the forest until his body reached its limits, until his arms were blue from the cold and the bruises, his skin dry and red from the merciless wind blowing through the tall trees.

It was a good day when he caught sight of the witch, even if she disappeared almost immediately. She hasn't tried to lure him into a trap, which he considered a small victory. She hasn't lead him astray again, but on the other hand she hasn't spoken to him again either. Ivar was desperate for a conversation, a chance to speak to her and defend his cause. She was obviously a creature of intelligence – there was no mistaking the glimmer in her eyes – only a sharp-minded person would behave the way she did.

She proceeded with caution, studied her stalker, kept her distance. He supposed that if she hasn't tried to hex him into oblivion despite her clear threat the day of their first meeting it meant that she wasn't past seeing reason. Perhaps she only waited for Ivar to make a better offer.

But what could a witch want? She lived secluded, alone, and only the gods knew what she was truly capable of. Was there anything Ivar could give her that she couldn't get herself? It was a thought worth pondering – especially since Ivar had so much time to think now that she reverted to silence.

The more he thought about it, the more inclined he was to reconsider his mother's tales and the legend surrounding the witch. Could it be that she was the owl and the raven that seemed to follow him during his first weeks of wandering? Would she answer truthfully if he asked? If it was him he wouldn't tell a soul.

Sometimes he thought she was there but didn't see anything. On other occasions he saw her, and then she walked round a tree and was there no longer. On rarer instances he thought he heard footsteps, or the rustling of leaves and branches indicating someone was coming, but nothing moved at all.

He would have burnt this forest to the ground if he thought for a second that it would get her out of her lair, but he knew better. If he disrespected her sacred land, she would forever remain out of reach and never listen to him. She made it clear that she was a being of the earth, protector of the woods and its inhabitants – perhaps she would kill him for his crimes lest he give in to his destructive urges.

No. He would keep going. He would follow her like her cloak of shadows until she couldn't ignore his presence anymore.

  
  


*

  
  


She sighed, and knelt to the ground. This young Viking was tenacious, she had to give him that. Her hands dug in the wet ground and ripped out the roots she needed, storing them in her basket before she rose to her feet again. A slight shiver made her hair stand on end, and she knew he wasn't far.

He was good. Very perceptive – for a man. Despite the wards she cast about her he somehow always found his way back towards her, even forcing her to use tricks to lure him away. The sun has barely risen in the foggy morning, but already she sensed he was near, the sound of his crutches tapping against the ground growing closer.

She walked on, her eyes fixed on the ground, looking for herbs and mushrooms. Would he ever give up? He was young and reckless, but she sensed no danger from him. He had an aura of darkness about him, as though his young age hid horrendous actions, and she had no difficulty imagining him do terrible things, but still he did not seem to mean harm – not towards her.

When his eyes locked with hers, she saw not fear like she usually did in the eyes of men, but profound respect, awe, and envy. Truly she pitied the poor creature. She wished her fate to no living being, not even the wretched people of Kattegat.

Having found a tree with the mushrooms she was looking for, she stopped walking again. Her mind constantly jumped back to the Viking, unable to push him out of her thoughts. So far she has been able to keep her home hidden from view, leading him in a wrong direction every time he came too close, but she knew it was but a matter of time until he slipped past her vigilant eyes and saw where she lived.

Why couldn't he give up like the others? Run away in fear? She greeted him in the worst way possible, in the middle of the night, by surprise, and let her shadows loom over him like the wide open jaws of a predator ready to rip his head clean off. Why was he still walking in her tracks?

He wouldn't last much longer, that much she knew. Each day the nights became colder and the small animals began to prepare for winter, soon the forest would become quiet as a grave, and the young man would die. The cold and hunger would take him sneakily, with no warning.

And for a reason beyond her comprehension, it didn't sit well in her stomach.

Sighing once more though there was no one near enough to hear her, she left a few mushrooms on the bark of the tree. She already had more than enough, and he needed them more than she did anyway. Momentarily breaking the silence spell she put on herself, she walked away noisily to catch his attention.

Hopefully he would follow it and find the mushrooms. His cheeks hollowed by the day.

  
  


*

  
  


Ivar wasn't a fool, he understood what she was trying to do, and he hated it. But one thing he came to realize was that she didn't want him to die, and that played in his favour. Why else would she leave fruits, mushrooms and edible plants in her wake? It also told him that she knew he followed her, and that she let him. So perhaps he shouldn't take too much pride in his tracking skills, perhaps she only allowed him to follow her, as opposed to Ivar hunting her down.

For a moment he thought he had the upper hand but she was a step ahead of him. What was going through her mind? If she thought he was going to get tired of pursuing her or bored, then she had another thing coming. Ivar wouldn't stop until he got what he wanted, one way or another.

It seemed like the witch saw no reason to hide while she performed dull daily tasks. Ivar saw her walk about here and there, picking fruits, gathering small wood, chopping bigger firewood, collecting moss, fetching water. All of this told him one important thing: she had a house.

Somewhere in these woods was her home. She wasn't an evanescent creature that appeared and disappeared at will and fed on unlucky children or the soul of mortal men. She ate apples, and stew, and slept in a bed.

His stomach rumbled at the sheer idea of a warm meal. Ivar hasn't had meat in a while – rabbits grew rare these days.

“By the Norns, you stubborn thing!” He heard her curse from behind him and nearly gave himself whiplash when he twisted his head around to see her.

There she stood, in the shade of a tree. Though shade implied that there was sunlight, and Ivar hadn't seen the sun in about as much time as he hasn't had meat. However the day hasn't come to an end yet, and he could see her better this time. Her face remained hidden, but her appearance was much less intimidating then during night-time.

“I told you,” he started. “I need your services. I will not go back until you listen to me.”

His voice was cautious, as to not make her flee again. He's had a lot of time to ponder what he was going to tell her once he managed to get her attention.

“Are you on a death wish?” She asked him, cocking an eyebrow under her heavy hood. “Will you hide away in a corner to die like an animal? Go back to your village and leave your mad thoughts behind. I cannot help you,” she insisted, trying to make him see reason.

Ivar's mouth twisted in a cocky grin, his confidence rising.

“You seem worried,” he pointed out, not bothering to hide his victorious smile.

“I do not want to have your rotting corpse on my territory,” she scowled. His grin wavered under her stern gaze.

“I thought the land belonged only to the gods,” Ivar said, using her own words against her.

She at least had the decency to look offended. More than offended, she became angry and stepped forward until her feet stood firmly in the ground before Ivar, his eyes no higher than her knees.

“I will not play your games, young Viking,” she uttered menacingly.

“My name is Ivar,” he told her, and this time he saw her flinch slightly, even if most her face was still unreadable what with the charcoal she painted it with.

“Very well, young Ivar...” she started, and he almost scowled when he heard her using the word young again. Young, young... Always too young to be taken seriously, even by a hermit witch. “I do not care for your play on words or your desperation. I do not care for your life, you shall live or die or do whatever you see fit.” Her eyes didn't leave him, they pinned him to the ground, silently forbade him to move or talk until she was done. “But I will not have you spoiling these parts. For the last time, go away.”

Once the last word was uttered she looked away and spun on her heels, ready to leave him in the dust with the knowledge that her point came across. But that was a mistake she would only make once, for Ivar wasn't done with her.

“I don't believe you,” he said. The sap even had the gall to snigger! “You wouldn't be here, lecturing me, if you didn't care.”

The witch stopped dead in her tracks but refused to turn around. She bit down on her lower lip hard enough to draw blood to the surface. Her hand was already in her basket, and she was no liar.

“It's true that I do not have the prerogative of being insensitive to other creatures' suffering,” she said at long last, when the silent had stretched so that Ivar thought she wouldn't answer at all. “Perhaps it is my weakness, but it's one I gladly embrace. Here!” He turned around only to throw something at Ivar, which he caught as a reflex. “Soon there will be no small animal left to hunt. No fruits, no mushrooms. I might have some sympathy for you, but the seasons don't care if you live or die, Ivar. Go home. You don't belong here.”

This time he sensed he couldn't say anything else to change her mind – for now. Ivar watched her resume her walking when suddenly she stopped again.

“One last word if I may. Don't give your name so freely in these parts, young Viking. There is evil in this world, and not all as gracious as me.”

With those ominous words she left him alone, vanishing between the trees as per usual. Ivar supposed she didn't want him to see where she was going, and concluded that she must be going home – like she suggested he should.

But he wouldn't. Ivar looked down at his hand, still somewhat befuddled. He didn't think too long or hard though, and simply bit in the loaf of bread. He moaned in delight – it was crusty on the outside, and soft and still warm on the inside. It was dark bread mixed with all sorts of nuts and herbs.

Be that as it may, she just provided him with enough food to last another handful of days in the woods, and he would use them to carry on his stalking.

  
  


*

  
  


Some days he didn't see her at all, and while Ivar expected it to anger him, it mostly disappointed him. Even he could not ignore the loneliness of his endeavour and relished her company – although she mostly ignored him or lectured him, he found her rather endearing.

He was sure that she had grown to appreciate his presence just as he did hers. After years of living alone in the woods, surely she must seek out conversation and human company? What of her needs? Who warmed her bed? Who helped her not go insane?

He observed her and tried to follow her lead to survive in this wild environment. He tried to find the secret spots where mushrooms still grew in the increasingly cold temperatures, or spot the edible herbs. When he did he stuffed his mouth with the little brown fungi, sometimes not even bothering to rinse them in a puddle. Hunger dominated him. The witch made a very good point when she said he would starve himself to death by staying here, but Ivar would reach his limits before giving up.

If he left now he might never find her again. Perhaps it was what she wanted, but he wasn't going to take the risk. Not for a good night's sleep, not for a large serving of pork chops. Mushrooms made him sick now, but he had to keep eating anything he could. It warmed him up to have something in his stomach, and it gave him enough force to continue walking.

Some other days, he didn't even try to talk to her at all. But he kept a close eye on her, as if he waited to see what she would do if she found him spying on her again.

One day he saw her cleaning herself in a pond, swimming across, amid the fallen leaves floating on the surface. He briefly thought that it was too cold to bathe in the dark waters, but she didn't seemed bothered at all.

After a while she returned to the edge and started washing away the sweat, mud, dust and dirt. Her hair was longer than he had imagined once freed from all the knots and ornaments. It clung to her back and reached the bump of her backside. He expected its dark hue to make a stark contrast with her creamy skin but was once again stunned by what his eyes shows him. Not black hair, no, but white, pure as freshly fallen snow, blending in with the rest of her uncharacteristically pale complexion.

They say all cats are grey in the dark but Ivar could not have expected this any less. Where was the creature of darkness he was told about? And if she's not it, than who was she?

Her arms were littered in tiny scars as one would expect from someone who lives in the wilderness. But what stood out most where the many runes littering her entire body. Up and down her legs, on her stomach, on her arms and around her wrists.

From the spot Ivar was posted at he could not read them but he was fascinated all the same. They were everywhere. Her body was a book.

She lived alone out there, how could she have tattoos on her back? Where did they come from?

She was back to him, her hands trailing up and down her arms to scrub off the dirt. The water around her became muddy, so she dived down and came back to the surface a couple meters from where she stood, pushing her long hair out of her face.

This time she faced Ivar fully, and it was as though he saw her for the first time. However he couldn't bring himself to look anywhere but her face, for her eyes were locked on him. He suddenly understood with full force that she had always been aware of his presence. She let him spy on her. Probably for days.

And he didn't even care. So far all he had seen was a troubling dark creature always draped in long cloaks and engulfing dresses. He couldn't remember seeing her face once, he didn't know what she looked like at all. The memory of her piercing blue eyes still burned in his mind, like two flaming torches flickering in the night, eclipsing everything else.

She didn't move, didn't blink, didn't try to cover her naked body. Ivar was locked on her gaze, and a strong pull emanated from her. He was struck by the urge to join her. He couldn't walk, and certainly couldn't swim, trying to join her in the pond would be suicide. Yet something about her sucked him in – and as sure as the sun rose each morning, he knew that very same thing would spit him out.

Yet his body took the lead despite his better judgement, and Ivar was shocked beyond words when he felt his legs push his body up from the ground without the help of his crutches. He stood tall and without any pain or outside help for the briefest moment, and then came the darkness.

  
  


*

  
  


Ivar woke up in a start, sweating and heaving, his eyes darting madly around him to see where he was and what was happening. He didn't recognize his surroundings at all. It was dark, he wasn't outside, he was too hot, and laid on something soft. This was as far as his assessment of the situation went.

“Stay still you foolish boy,” a voice snapped at him.

He didn't recognize it, but he knew the sternness in it, he had heard it before. His dear mother's voice had the same ring to it whenever she addressed her wayward sons, and Ivar recognized the scolding tone of a woman who intended to be obeyed.

There was something on his chest, making it an ordeal to breathe. Each new intake of air was a gift, and Ivar struggled to get rid of whatever weighted down on him, though however much his hands fumbled around he did not find a thing.

“I said stop moving!” The voice came again. “I told you this would happen, I warned you that you weren't welcome.” A tinge of panic tainted the scolding voice, and Ivar felt someone else's hands still his own and place them back each side of his body. “The forest protects its inhabitants and chases away the foolhardy who dare trespass. I tried to tell you, I tried...”

Was she talking to herself? Ivar couldn't tell. His eyes were closed again, unable to keep open what with the blindingly bright flame dancing in the hearth. A house, he was in a house. A woman's house. Could it be... ?

“Oh young Ivar,” the voice said, and this time he knew. The witch. He felt a cold hand rest on his forehead, wiping away the sweat pearling there, combing back his damp hair. “Fight.”

There was will in this single word, determination. It wasn't a wish, it sounded more like an order, like a demand. And somehow, he wanted to obey. It instilled strength in his sore limbs, cleared his mind. The hand still stroked his head, chasing away the cold dampness and grounding him to this world.

Ivar recognized the symptoms of a fever, and he knew the first night was crucial. If he made it through the night, he would survive.

He had to fight.

  
  


*

  
  


The second time he woke up it was daytime and he was alone from what he could tell – but not for long. Ivar barely had the time to take in his new surroundings, and wonder if he really was inside the witch's house, if this was all it took – a little fever – to get in, when she burst through the door, letting in a gust a chilling wind.

She was rubbing her arms to warm herself and sat down on a small stool in front of the fire to warm her hands. Ivar did not budge – if she didn't notice he was awake, then it was the perfect occasion to study her from up close. Apart from the few times she wanted to intimidate him into leaving, he never saw her this clearly.

That and this one time he saw her bathe, right before his fever took a hold of him. A memory that brought red to his cheeks and made him stir despite himself. She whipped around and stood up, grabbing her basket overflowing with all kinds of herbs Ivar couldn't identify for the life of him.

“What happened?” He asked, his voice coming out huskier than he expected. How long has it been since he last used it?

“You didn't take my warning seriously is what happened,” the witch replied, her voice sharp and final.

“Tell me,” Ivar insisted, coughing a bit to set his voice right. “I don't remember anything.”

She froze, her hands crushing a few herbs in her closed fist and looked straight ahead of her. For a moment Ivar thought she wasn't going to answer, or maybe even kick him out for being such a troublesome guest.

“My guess is that you ate poisonous mushrooms,” she finally said before setting to work again, cutting up some herbs, ripping the leaves off others, crushing certain flowers and throwing it all in a pot over the fire. She let it all brew and stirred occasionally, still turning her back to Ivar. “But I can't know for sure what it was. All I can tell is that your fever wasn't due to sickness or a weakness of body.”

Ivar grumbled something under his breath when he heard 'weakness of body' but he didn't say anything more than that. He should feel lucky he got an answer out of her. She was still draped in her black cape, the hood up even inside her house – probably for his sake and not just because she was still cold from her trip outdoors.

Truth be told he felt better than the last time he was conscious, but he was still heartsick, as though he was back on the boat that took him to Wessex, when he nearly drowned. His head was a haze, his memory hazardous as well, and his throat felt dry.

“I need water,” he said.

He saw her sigh more than he heard her, but the witch fetched a pitcher of water nonetheless. She poured some in a horn and came to sit next to him, holding it up for him to drink out of. Ivar drunk sloppily, all the while staring at her face, trying to see her from under her gigantic hood.

“More?” She asked when he was finished.

“Please,” Ivar said, the word burning his throat almost as much as the thirst.

She repeated the same operation as before and came back, and when Ivar had emptied his second drink he felt better.

“I suppose you must be hungry as well,” she said, not bothering to hide the slight annoyance in her tone. It made Ivar feel like a stray cat that ventured into someone's home and that now needed feeding.

“No mushrooms,” Ivar grunted, sitting upright on the makeshift bed.

It looked like she set him in front of the hearth to keep him warm, but this room had three doors, one of them leading outside, which meant the house was bigger than what Ivar saw from where he sat. She didn't give him her bed.

“I, unlike you, know my edible mushrooms from the poisonous ones,” she sniggered, obviously finding great amusement in the thought that her threats and the harsh weather didn't make him budge but a little mushroom nearly got the best of him. “You will eat whatever I give you, these times don't allow choosiness,” she added more seriously.

“I suppose you expect a thank you,” Ivar said in a mocking tone soon as she handed him a bowl of stew. He could see carrots floating in it, and potatoes. “But we wouldn't have come to his if you had agreed to listen to me in the first place.”

He couldn't see her clench her jaw but Ivar sure as Helheim heard her teeth screeching.

“It's not too late to kick you out of my house and let the wolves finish what the mushrooms started,” she warned him. “I gave you my answer the day we met: I won't do as you ask. I didn't leave you waiting for an answer young Viking, and it is no one's fault but yours if you don't accept it.”

His anger flared again, and Ivar was tempted to throw the bowl in her face, if only to make her finally show herself. Obviously he won't get his way with her like he did with most people. Most people were afraid of him and it made it easy to drop a few veiled threats here and there to bend them to his will.

The witch wasn't an ignorant people of Kattegat who lived in fear. She was in her home, Ivar was at her mercy in the middle of an unknown, dark forest full of dangerous animals in the early winter, and she knew for a fact that the most dangerous of them all was herself.

“Eat now, before it gets cold,” she told him, with that same motherly voice she used on him before. Ivar knew not how to refuse her when she used that voice and he was hungry anyway, so he obeyed.

“I know what tales your people must have told you about me, I know what they call me,” she started talking while he spooned the stew into his mouth, closing his eyes at the delightful taste and moaning when it warmed him from inside. “I've been spending a great deal of my time wondering what drove you to this length. What on earth would make you seek out the witch of Kattegat, the monster that eats children and bathe in the blood of men?” She asked.

Ivar recognized a rhetorical question when he heard one though.

“Then I thought perhaps you were the same as me,” she suggested. “Perhaps they drove you away because you were different and it scared them. But it just doesn't line up with the gold and land you promised me, should I accept to help you in your vengeful quest.”

He took mental note of everything she said, it would become food for thoughts later.

“If they drove you away then why don't you seek vengeance yourself?” Ivar questioned her, having finished his bowl.

Without asking if he wanted more, she gave him another serving. He didn't know if she was any good at brewing potions but he had never tasted a better stew in his life.

“They haven't, not really. But they would, given the chance,” she told him laconically.

“I do not understand you,” Ivar admitted, even if it pained him to do so.

“It is better if you don't. I don't wish to elicit pity, and I know you wouldn't sympathize with me even if I told you everything about me.” Ivar was about to protest. “Soon as you are better, I will lead you back to the path leading to your village, and we will never meet again.”

“No.”

“I won't house you forever, and you have already proven yourself quite bothersome,” she replied, squinting her eyes at him. “I have better things to do than to care for a crippled young Viking who wants nothing more than enslave me for my powers.”

“If you choose to stand by my side I shall do no such thing,” Ivar told her. “Together we could rule the entire world,” he assured her.

The witch blinked and stared at him in surprise before finally bursting in laughter. She stood up, wiping away tears and went back to her basket to put away her herbs now that Ivar was sated.

“I don't want to rule the world Ivar. I don't want to rule anyone but myself,” she told him, still laughing a bit. “You and I could not be more different it appears.”

“It seems so, yes...” Ivar agreed. “But it doesn't mean we cannot help each other. What would it cost you to help me? Why do you refuse so adamantly?” He wondered, attempting to drive out her motivations while she still felt talkative.

“I don't meddle with men. I have always lived away from your kind, who are wary of me, who scorn me, spit on me as I walk by. It might seem selfish or unfair to you, but you have no idea what you ask of me, young Viking. I cannot help you.”

“Then explain. Tell me why it is too much to ask. What is the cost?” Ivar insisted.

A gust a wind coming from nowhere suddenly made the doors and windows slam shut, and extinguished the fire in the hearth as well as all the candles he had lit in the room, and Ivar felt her presence looming over him after she'd dropped her basket to the floor.

It was like they were back in the forest on their first encounter, the shadows where everywhere, and his heart froze in shock. Ivar's breath caught in is throat, stricken with fear. He suddenly understood where her reputation came from.

“The cost! You always speak about cost! Cost, cost, cost!” She screeched at him, her voice transformed into something sharp and unpleasant. The sound pierced Ivar's ears, it felt like so many nails being driven into his skull. “You think you can buy everything? You can buy land, and thralls, and slaves. You can buy armies, loyalty, even a throne. But you cannot buy me, Ivar. You cannot buy my magic, and you certainly cannot repay me for what I already gave you.”

And just like that, the light came back. The windows opened, letting in weak rays of sunlight, and the fire in the hearth was just as roaring as it was before the witch's display of power. Her voice too was back to the clear, crystalline sound Ivar knew.

“Don't forget I saved your life. _You_ owe _me_ ,” she said before storming into the next room, leaving Ivar to his thoughts.

  
  


*

  
  


A quiet mutual understanding was born between them from the moment Ivar understood who exactly he was up against, and developed a new sense of respect for the witch. The witch who vehemently refused to give him her name.

Somehow he managed to bargain his stay, and she accepted for obscure reasons he intended to find out. He hadn't expected her to accept and found it very suspicious that she did, but couldn't exactly complain as it provided him with more time to convince her that he was in his birthright to wage war against the usurper who killed his mother.

It seemed to emulate some kind of an emotion when he mentioned his mother, and so Ivar tried to coax answers out of her yet again, asking her about her family.

“I live alone,” she told him as an answer, but Ivar could tell she tried to elude the question.

“Where does you family live then? Surely you can't be all on your own. Someone must have helped you get all the tattoos on your back,” he told her nonchalantly while peeling vegetables as per her request – their deal was that Ivar could stay as long as he worked for it, and help bring food on the table and wood in the hearth. It had only been three weeks so far.

The witch dropped her knife, and it stayed stuck upright in the wooden floor. She was sitting fairly far away from him, still hiding from his eyes as much as she could, therefore Ivar couldn't see the expression on her face, but he guessed it.

“How do you know about that?” She asked him.

A chill ran down his spine, and the temperature of the room dropped all of a sudden.

“Don't pretend you don't remember,” Ivar replied, taking a bite out of a carrot.

“What are you speaking of?” She asked, the cold in her voice undeniable but not as chilling as seconds before.

“I know you saw me spy on your bathe,” Ivar said, without an ounce of shame.

He mused that she didn't have any reason to deny it either, or feel shame. She was a beautiful woman. Why she kept trying to hide her face from him was a mystery because as far as he could tell, he has seen it all.

She picked up her knife and slammed it in the table. At least it got Ivar's full attention, and he stopped looking at the damned carrots instead of taking her astonishment seriously.

“Ivar,” she said his name and it sounded like it came from inside his skull. “This never happened.”

“What do you mean it never happened? I didn't just make it up, how else would I know of the runes on your back?” He said, now looking at her.

He didn't appreciate that she tried to make him a liar, or doubted his word. Ivar might be many things, but he had honour and pride, and he wouldn't lie about watching a woman bathe.

“You mean these?” She asked, and under Ivar's started eyes she pulled back her sleeve to show the runic tattoos swirling around her wrist.

He thought he would never get to see them again, especially not any closer than he did on the day he spied on her.

He frowned. They didn't make any sense.

“I know you cannot read them,” she said upon seeing the confusion painting on his features. “What else did you see?”

His eyebrows rose up now, and he smirked.

“Plenty,” he stated in a manner that he wanted smooth, but it only earned him a stern glare. “You were bathing, witch. What do you think I saw? And shouldn't you know it too? You caught me staring that day.”

“It never happened,” she repeated, stressing each word this time. “Whatever you saw must have been a fever induced hallucination, I would never have let you spy on me bathing, let alone let you live if I caught you doing so,” she assured him.

Ivar could tell she told the truth, there was no mistaking the dangerous glimmer in her eyes. It had nothing to do with her being a powerful witch, and everything to do with her womanly pride.

“Then it must have been a gift from the gods,” Ivar stated. “It is a sign we were bound to meet.”

“It is a sign you ate hallucinogenic mushrooms,” she corrected him dryly. She didn't want to admit it out loud but Ivar must be right in some way. He does know about something she had always kept hidden from the eyes of the world, and that was no coincidence. 

“You have no need for this hood now, witch,” Ivar told her, having resumed his cutting vegetable and cleaning mushrooms.

The words were spoken lightly, Ivar didn't think she would give him any mind, as her eyes were lost in the distance. She must be thinking over what he told her, and not even listening to him anymore. But suddenly he felt her eyes on him, and when he looked up, she had dropped her hood and undid the knot tying her cape at the base of her throat, letting the material slip to the floor.

His eyes widened as he took in the sight, and he stilled. He never got a good look at her up until now, however much he tried. He began to study her more closely in the dim daylight.

Her long hair was a mess of braids and beads and tangles along with feathers and leather strips. She wore a string of leather around her neck, to which she attached little bones she found on the forest grounds. Birds, rabbits, cats, dogs, foxes, does, chicken, and many Ivar could not identify. They hang around her neck and clicked with each of her movements.

Along with her current appearance, Ivar invoked whatever memory he had of her other attires. On cold days she draped a roughly cut fox pelt on her shoulders, the colour matching her hair and making her look like a strange animal. Her fingers were dipped in black, her nails long and sharp – or so he would have sworn after their first meeting, but now, when he looked at her hands he saw normal, clean, hands.

She carved the bones she picked up and stuck them through the holes in her ear lobes. She concocted various mixtures of many different colours that she used to paint her face along with the black charcoal around her eyes. She wore leather and bird skulls around her wrists. Jewels, she liked jewels.

There was not a hint of gold, not even iron. Wood and bones and stones, sometimes flowers were her source materials and she lived in complete harmony with her surroundings. Never disfiguring the face of he earth, never leaving permanent marks of her trace. Nature ruled over her and not the other way around. She was a wild thing, untamed, untouched, unreachable.

Ivar thought she wasn't so different from him after a few months of frequently seeing her, but perhaps he was in the wrong. Perhaps he wasn't up to the task he set himself to.

A ghost. She was pale as a ghost, and Ivar's understanding of the world shattered when he was finished taking in her appearance.

“What are you?”

Soon as he asked the question he felt stupid for it. He remembered the gentleness of her touch against his hot forehead during his fever, and decided she couldn't be a ghost.

“I am a woman,” she barked at him, as if he had somehow offended her. “I thought you, out of everyone, might understand that. After all I'm sure people have put your manhood in question because of your own... defects.”

She stomped away to the bowl of clear water and splashed some on her face to get rid of the paint and charcoal, washing it all away. Her cheeks beheld an angry red hue when she was done, but Ivar saw her more clearly than ever.

Her long white hair, and pale skin glowed even in the light. No wonder he had thought her a magical being in the darkness of the forest, no wonder he thought her eyes shining in the dark. She was the colour of a freshly fallen snow, still immaculate and free of footsteps. Her clear eyes stared back at him, waiting for a reaction.

“Are you even a witch?” He asked. “Or just another poor creature forgotten by the gods?”

A sadness tainted his voice, and she guessed that thinking about her own physical defects hit very close to his own. Still, she huffed lightly.

“Do you need to ask? Have I not given you proof enough yet?” She replied.

She had. They both knew it.

“I stand by what I said. You should understand better than anyone on this earth why I need your help in avenging my parents and retrieving their kingdom. You know my pain, and my frustration, you _feel_ it too.”

“I only wish for a quiet life, one I am denied among men, but that the forest grants me,” she explained, sitting closer to him now. “If we are as alike as you say, then why can't _you_ understand how _I_ feel?”

“I supposed it is not in my nature. I was born a prince.”

“I was born a nothing. I know my place, and I stick to it. I like it. I do not aspire to anything more than what I already have, and I wish you can one day find the same kind of peace I have here,” she said, letting her hand rest on his elbow.

It was the first time she touched him. Ivar didn't count the time when he was sick, he was barely conscious. He felt a jolt of electricity shoot up his arm, and she must have felt it too because she withdrew her hand abruptly and looked at it in confusion.

“I'm sorry, I don't know-” She started, but was interrupted when Ivar pulled her to him, his arm holding her waist and pressing her to him.

She was warm, and soft under his hands. He could feel the gentle slope of her curves as he moved his hand up her body. She stopped breathing when his nose brushed against her own, he could feel her holding her breath. How long would she last?

Her own hands found a place to rest. One palm open above his heart, the other one of his shoulder. She was acutely aware of his proximity and how it affected her heartbeat and her ability to think straight.

She knew he was giving her a chance to push him away, or say no, but she stayed still, and listened to the steady beat of his heart under her palm, counting in her head in a vain attempt to slow down her own. How could he stay to collected?

“I have never kissed a witch,” he told her, his lips grazing against hers.

“Because I'm the first one you meet or because they all rejected you?” She somehow managed to ask, though her head was a mess.

“I knew I'd get you from the first time I heard about the scary witch of Kattegat,” Ivar told her, his hot breath making her dizzy. She tried to keep a clear head. “The tales the elders told us when we were children sparked my interest, even then. My brothers feared you, but I knew I'd find a soul mate in you,” he continued whispering seductively until he felt her lean in slowly, parting her lips ever so slightly.

He was about to close the remaining distance between them when she pulled away and laughed. Not mockingly, not to be mean, but Ivar still felt hurt in his pride when she stood up. But standing up she needed to do, because she couldn't keep the conversation going for much longer if he held her like that.

No man had ever touched her like this. No one who stumbled in her part of the forest ever treated her like a woman. She wanted to kiss him, oh yes she wanted it so very badly. But it was a bad idea.

“The tales of the elders!” She exclaimed. “How old do you think I am, Ivar?”

He frowned a bit.

“I think you have no age. That time doesn't affect you like it does mortal men,” he said, ignoring the growing grin on her face.

“This might be a disappointment to you, but I am not an ageless magical creature. These tales spoke of my mother, and her mother before her, and so on...” she explained, and light suddenly appeared in Ivar's eyes.

She could see the question forming in his head and chose to answer before he could ask it.

“They are dead now. Killed by your own.” Now a shadow fell before his eyes and his mouth twisted in anger and disgust. “Every now and again men think the witch is vulnerable, that age is a sign of her weakness, and go hunt the elder of my family. They think they killed the witch of Kattegat, but then the next in line replaces her, and the story repeats itself with each new generation.”

“I will put an end to it once I am king,” Ivar vowed. “With your help.”

“You never give up. I understand, I suppose it is a quality – most of the time. But I do not intend to live long Ivar, rather to live well.”

“You could have both. If you come back to Kattegat with me no one will dare lay a finger on you, you will be under my protection and that of my brothers. The fool who will defy the sons of Ragnar to get to you is not yet born,” he told her with so much certainty in his voice that she dared imagine what her life would be like if she agreed.

But she didn't consider the thought seriously, not even for a moment.

“I am so sorry,” she began, and Ivar's face fell. “You must think that I settled for this life of reclusion, but it did not. I chose it. I chose to stay away from men and their violence.”

“You must let _some_ men into your life,” Ivar's tempered flare. “You are the daughter of someone, I would wager even witches need a man to have a child.”

She stepped back a little, blushing.

“We have our ways,” she admitted, looking away with dignity and refusing to meet his burning glare.

Ivar stood up now, using the table to keep himself standing.

“What of the male children? Do you throw them into the sea? Eat them?” He now accused her of all sorts of hateful things, and she knew it came from a place of anger and frustration because she denied him a kiss, and once again refused to help him, but his words stung all the same.

“If we birth a boy we bring it to its father,” she said, as detached as she could.

She hadn't experienced any of this herself, for her mother had only given birth to one child: her. These were tales to her, as much as the scary witch of Kattegat was a tale to Ivar. The children mauling witch.

“How do you lure the men to your bed? Do you venture out of your land and hex a poor passer-by, and then leave him with a child to care for if it turns out to be a boy?”

His accusations made her feel small, and little by little she stepped back until she stood in a corner, and Ivar advanced on her, having grabbed his crutches.

“No!”

“Do you use people and throw them away? Aren't you doing the very thing you reproach me?” He barked at her. “At least I have the decency to be honest about my intentions. I came here asking for help and offered something in return! What do you offer? A night between your thighs?!”

“Stop it!” She shouted.

Her voice came out disembodied and she filled the room, her shadows flaring about her until this corner of the house was but a pitch black hole and Ivar didn't know where the ground was anymore. The dawning realizing that he overstepped an invisible line came crashing down on him, but it was too late to take back his words.

“Another word and I will rip you apart you foul man!” She threatened him. “Do not test my patience, for its limits will come much quicker than you think. I will not stand being insulted in my own home another second!”

Her eyes now glowed red and fiery like the deepest pits of Helheim, and Ivar felt the ground quake and shake as if the entire house was connected to her in some way, trembling with indignation in face of Ivar's grotesque accusations.

When she reabsorbed the shadows and the ground felt steady again, Ivar collapsed, his eyes not leaving hers as they recovered their normal ghostly colour.

“Be careful where you direct your anger, Ivar,” she told him with her usual voice now. “I am not one of your thralls, you cannot yell at me and expect no consequences, and no reaction. I will not submit.”

“I don't expect you to.”

Feeling her own tempter rising, she scoffed and stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind her. It was a downpour outside, the cold rain hitting her at hard as small drops of metal, and she didn't take her coat. No, instead she ran to the pond and dove in it.

She didn't calm down until she was under the surface, the water cancelling out any and all noise, even the one inside her.

  
  


*

  
  


Ivar hadn't stopped pacing around since she left, anguishing over what could happen to her out there in the cold and wild weather. He couldn't go out like that, he wouldn't make it back, and it wouldn't help if he got lost in the woods.

Though perhaps she wished for it to happen. He knew he crossed a line, and took his frustration out on her for no reason. His ego took a severe blow and his quick temper got the best of him. She never gave him any reason to think badly of her. She fed him, cared for him, gave him shelter, and trusted him with information she had never shared with anyone, and what did he do?

He pushed her away. Because every single person who ever cared for him had left him, one way or another. His father executed, his mother murdered, his uncle Floki self-exiled, who was left?

If he allowed himself to let this young witch into his life, would he have to watch her leave too? Did he want to take the risk?

All those weeks far away from home, from his brothers and from the politics of life, showed him life under a new perspective. She was right to refuse his invitation to accompany him to Kattegat. Her life here was much sweeter. The slow and steady pace of life was comforting, even Ivar could admit that, though his Viking blood boiled for war and raids.

She had a home here, a safe, undisturbed home that he violated. And if he took so much as a second to consider things from her point of view, he could easily understand why she refused so adamantly to help him, and thus engage with men and their pointless feuds.

He was so relieved when she came back that he thought he might pick her up if he could. He quickly assessed the situation, taking note that she was soaked through and through, shaking so much her teeth rattled.

“B-bath,” she breathed out.

Ivar first thought she was asking him to draw her a bath – which he never did and didn't know how to do, even if he was willing to oblige her. But then she walked past him, grabbing his sleeve as she did and lead him into the small adjacent room. There was a basin and while Ivar still wondered what she was doing, he saw it fill up all on its own.

The witch whispered something under her breath until it was filled to her satisfaction and steaming hot. She undressed before his eyes, her clothes sliding down her body and creating a puddle on the ground.

“What are you doing?” Ivar asked, a lump in his throat. He felt hotter than a minute before.

She didn't answer before she was fully immersed in the hot water and the trembling of her limps stopped.

“I'm taking a bath, it's really cold outside,” she said as though it was nothing. “Sit.”

“Don't order me around,” Ivar told her but did what she said anyway.

“You accused me of a great many serious things, Ivar, I think you owe it to me to listen now,” she declared with unwavering resolution. He couldn't deny her that.

“I am listening,” he told her. “I'm always listening.”

“Not always no, if you were you wouldn't have said those atrocities,” she replied.

While she was outside Ivar had vowed to not let his temper speak in his stead anymore, but the moment he heard this familiar aloofness in her voice he was tempted to scream again.

“Don't do that. You're not a detached person, you take things at heart,” he pointed out.

Her white hair clung to her face and she pushed it back, then grabbed the bar of soap sitting on the edge of the basin, still ignoring Ivar. It was maddening to speak to someone who obstinately refused to look at him!

“I was wrong to let you in as much as I did,” she said. “You took me by surprise with that strange dream of yours, but it was a mistake to tell you so many things about me.”

“I will not betray your trust,” he assured her. “If you don't give any credit to my word at least trust my selfishness. What would it bring me to share what I know? Information is power, and I know the witch of Kattegat now,” he added when he saw her wrinkle her nose upon hearing him ask her to _trust_ _him_.

“Oh I know how much you value information. I know you will keep my secrets. But I still regret telling you. I regret thinking for a second that you weren't like the other men. That we were the same. My mother knew what men were like and I should have listened to her instead of taking pity on you and letting you into my home, my sanctuary. This is what I get for saving your life I suppose, being accused of murdering children and raping innocent men.”

Ivar swallowed thickly but stayed silent.

“No man is innocent,” she declared, her eyes finally settling on him. “Least of all you.”

“I know. I'm the one who murders men, women, and children. I'm the monster Kattegat should fear,” he said. “And I'm on a warpath.”

“So what am I in all of that?” She asked, her eyes pleading again, pleading for the truth, for relief. “A means to an end?”

“At first yes.” Relief did come when she heard the honestly in his voice, but it had a bitter after-taste. “I expected a quick exchange of favours and to never see you again, not that you'd take me in and care for me.”

“I do not care for you,” she told her, but her eyes disagreed.

“I care for you. And it'll get you killed,” Ivar said. “Which is why I am leaving on the morrow. You'll never hear of me again unless you seek me out yourself. In which case you will be welcome in Kattegat once I take it back.”

She wanted to believe him but his promises sounded empty. Her mother didn't die for this to happen. Her grandmother wasn't burned alive for her to make the mistake to trust a man's word.

“Allow me to make you one last offer before we part though,” Ivar added.

The witch closed her eyes. Of course. Of course he was only after her powers.

“What could you possibly offer me now? I already declined everything you were willing to give,” she scoffed, a bit more irritably than intended.

Would she miss bickering with him and hearing him promise her the world against the smallest favour? Yes, she would. But the longer he stayed the harder the toll on her when he would leave. In all honesty she was tempted to give him what he wanted just to get rid of him, and perhaps it was his strategy all along, to wear her out.

On the morrow. He would leave in a few hours. Why did it feel like a such a long time, and yet so short?

“Me.”

She froze.

“What are you even saying?”

“Me. I'm on the table now. You need a man, or you'll need one at some point, to have a child yourself.”

“Who says I want a child? Why would I want to bring a living being into this world only to see it suffer like I did for being different? If I had half a mind I would remain the last of my line until you fail to keep your promise and a group of angry men who blame the witch for their bad harvest come and kill me!” She exclaimed, and soon climbed out of the basin, wrapping herself in furs to keep warm.

She stomped off to her bedroom, and Ivar followed.

“You don't have half a mind, you have a whole, brilliant one. And I can tell you desire a child. Any girl your age would already have three in Kattegat.”

“You don't know my age.”

“I'll wager you are my age,” he said, crushing her weak argument. “You are lonely, and you seek connection. Otherwise you wouldn't have taken in a poor Viking cripple, let alone bear with my foul mood and mouth.”

“You do have a foul mouth,” she agreed, shooting him a serious yet somewhat amused glare that Ivar took as a positive sign.

“I came here to use you, and I regret it. If I wasn't so blinded with rage I would have seen past what the tales said. I would have seen the woman behind the witch. I do now.”

Couldn't Ivar see the impact of his words? She wore her heart on her sleeve and her face must have betrayed her emotions yet he didn't take notice of the anguish, the agony he put her into. Talking about children, about connection. What did he know about those things? He himself probably never thought about them or took them for granted. He had no idea how much it hurt to know that she might never get either.

“What do you want from me Ivar?!” She shouted at him, barely holding back the tears. “What will make you stop this sweet torture? I cannot bear it another second. Do you want me to drop a crown on your head? Make all your enemies drop dead this second? Bring back your parents? Make you an able bodied man? You seem to think I have endless power, that I can defy the gods, but I cannot!”

She sat down on the bed, still holding onto her furs, rage-wiping away the tears that fell down her cheeks.

“I told you from the moment we met that I cannot undo what the gods did. I cannot bring back the dead, or take lives without consequences. I cannot give you your legs back without sacrificing something else, I cannot- I... I cannot...” She hiccuped helplessly, slipping to the ground.

Ivar caught her before she hit the floor and lifted her back onto her bed, only now measuring the full extent of the harm his had done.

“You said it yourself, I owe you for saving my life. This way I will pay my debt to you, and if the gods see fit to give me a child, even one I will never see, then it will be compensation enough.”

“But I cannot use my magic for you,” the witch said again, as if to emphasis her powerlessness in this situation.

She drew her power from the earth, and gave back everything she took in various ways. What he asked of her- what he wanted her to do... it would require too great a sacrifice. This much power would kill her.

“The offer is on the table, I won't take it back. You decide what happens now,” he told her, still holding her against him. “Don't be afraid of what might happen if you have this child, _my_ child. Whether you accept or not, witch hunting has come to an end, I will make sure of it. And if anything happened to my child, I would raise Hel and rain down on whoever touched her.”

“Do not talk like that.”

She couldn't listen to Ivar talk about her child, their child, as though she was already there, cradled in her arm, smiling up at her. Like they were happy parents who marvelled at their offspring and swore to kill anyone who laid a finger on her. The sheer thought tore her insides.

“Magic... is a curse, Ivar,” she managed to say in between two hiccups. “We are both cursed.”

“I know,” he said, once again wishing he could address her with her own name. “I know... But it doesn't need to be so always.”

  
  


*

  
  


It was snowing on Kattegat, and Ivar rose early this day. He always made sure to wake up before anyone else when the weather promised snow, because he wanted to see his kingdom covered in an immaculate blanket of untainted snow. No one had stepped out of their house yet, no one had disturbed the perfect landscape before his eyes.

Snow always reminded him of the witch. After their goodbyes he never saw her again, no matter how many times he tried to find his way back to her little house in the woods. People thought him mad.

Most thought him dead by the time he returned, and while he kept a secret where he had spent the last few weeks, his brothers guessed what he was up to.

“Did you find her?” Hvitserk had asked him elusively.

Ivar grinned and rustled his brother's hair, knowing he hated it.

“Find the witch? Do you still believe in children's tales Hvitserk?” He had said. The remark made Hvitserk grumble something and never bring up the subject again.

It all happened so many moons ago that Ivar wasn't entirely sure he could trust his memory, but on the other hand, how could he have made it all up? If he wasn't with the witch, where was he during those months he disappeared?

If he closed his eyes he could still see her smile. She hadn't done it often, but she did offer him a smile when she bid him farewell, her hands crossed over her stomach in a silent prayer, and that was the last picture Ivar had of her. He was glad it was a happy one. He wouldn't have been able to bear it if they had left things the way they were after their argument.

He had never consoled a crying woman before, and never thought he would be any good at it. Perhaps it was simply because he could never understand their sadness. But he understood the witch, as she did him. And he stayed with her until her tears ran dry.

He expected her to turn him down again, especially after she admitted – or rather after he finally understood, though she has been telling him in subtle ways all along – that she could not solve his problems with her magic, that it didn't work like that. But in the dead of night, he felt her slip under his furs, and when he turned around he saw her beautiful clear blue eyes asking him a silent question.

He answered with a kiss, and his hands found the tender flesh of her hips, relishing in her warmth and the soft feeling of her delicate skin under his rough hands. He had trailed his fingers up on down the runic tattoos on her back and those on her thighs.

This night was imprinted in his mind, and he couldn't shake it off. In the end he never knew if the night they spent together bore fruit, but he mused that he liked it this way.

He liked not knowing what his Ísdís's real name was. In the end he had to settle for a name himself, if only to think about her in another term than 'the witch', and settle on what she reminded him most of.

Yes, Ivar liked quiet winter mornings, before the usual hustle and bustle of Kattegat. Yes, sometimes he regretted having ever left the arms of his little witch, and even sought her out in the woods. But he still remembered what he told her – that she would never see him again after their night together, unless she came to him.

He liked to think that she watched him come and go, and smiled to herself. His Ísdís, his first love. He would never know what could have been. All he knew was that he wasn't brought a little boy wrapped in furs nine months after leaving her. He knew that in his old days he would once again go to the forest and seek her out. Maybe find a tomb engraved with the same runes that ornamented her body. He had memorised some of them.

But for now, she was alive, he felt it in his bones. He sensed her presence sometimes, and when he looked up and saw a raven, or an owl, or sometimes a fox lurking behind a tree, and just assumed it was her, watching over him.

He would never be entirely sure that he made the right decision when he left her, but it felt right in his heart.

She was a wonder. A mystery that should be left alone and unsolved, lest it lose its magic.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The witch is obviously albinos. I didn’t state it explicitly because the word albinos didn’t exist before the 17th century.
> 
> Ísdís: Derived from Old Norse ís “ice” and dís “goddess”. Ísdís is a name he gave her because she never revealed her name, thus making this work both a reader insert and an OC x Ivar. 
> 
> I tried to make it spooky but I’m not a horror writer and it shows (i think). But anyway, the goal wasn’t to make you crap your pants but to go a little off the beaten track and try something new (and something I haven’t read yet). Also it’s a 100% self indulgent work, because I’m very passionate about witchcraft and I was just waiting for the right time (and a valid excuse) to go witchy on your asses.
> 
> Spoopy Halloween everyone


End file.
